


The Smallest Detail

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 16:24:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9499997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: For Westeroswolf's prompt:  Sansa thinking of increasingly ridiculous excuses why Sandor has to take his clothes off.Happy Birthday Westeroswolf!(Renamed from 'Sansa on a Mission' cause that was a terrible title for real)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [westeroswolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/westeroswolf/gifts).



> If it's possible to have a canon-set rom-com I suppose it would be something like this. Just fluff and silliness, as always don't take it too seriously. :-)
> 
> Happy Birthday Westeroswolf!

 

It was Tyrion’s fault; she knew that.

Oh, perhaps that’s not how it would seem to any outside observer but Sansa knew the truth of it. He was, after all, the only grown man she had ever seen unclothed, and even though the circumstances were not the type one reminisced on, the one thing she remembered from her wedding night was that he was... uh, _larger,_ than she expected.  And then… well, then, she never put much thought into it at all; not into her _husband_ at least. 

She couldn’t even say exactly how it happened, what made her thoughts wander down that particularly improper path, but eventually she decided that if the smallest man she could think of was larger than expected, then what of the _biggest_ man she could think of?  If the man in question was easily thrice the size of her former husband, would the same hold true for… _all_ of him?  The notion itself was a titillating one, and she spent many a night in the Vale wondering at it.

Things only got worse when she was safe again in Winterfell, the war now over and people returning in droves to be part of the rebuilding process. And who should appear but that same man, the one who occupied so many of her thoughts and dreams she could almost imagine he’d never even left.  Seeing him in the flesh made the fantasies even more vivid, and she’d happily escape into them at every opportunity, sinking under her covers every night with a mischievous smile at her lips.

And then came the dream.

She’d had dreams about him before- about every part of him- but they had always been exciting dreams, _fascinating_ dreams.  This one started no different.  He had laid her on an enormous bed covered in plush velvet blankets, the room bathed in candle light, and she watched as he began to undress.  The tunic first, as always, then the boots, then he looked deep into her eyes, lewd intentions plain on his face (and not so terribly frightening in her dream) as he unlaced, pulled both breeches and smallclothes down at once revealing…  

The tiniest, daintiest little manhood she ever imagined, so delicate she doubted one could even still call it a ‘manhood.’ And even in her dream she could feel her eyes go wide, her mouth dropping open from shock.

“What?” he demanded in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. “What’s wrong?”

She woke with a gasp, drenched in a cold sweat and unable to get back to sleep.

The following morning had her rattled and exhausted and shirking the day’s tasks. She felt skittish around him, unable to look him in the eyes, avoiding him instead of subtly seeking him out as usual.  Jon commented that she’d been acting different, and even though it shamed her, the bigger concern was whether Sandor had made the same observation.

But worse than her odd behavior was that the dream ruined her fantasies, stole the little escape she’d built for herself and left her feeling confused and frustrated. Which was ridiculous, she knew that- it was only a dream, had only ever _been_ a dream and could only ever _be_ a dream.  Her imagination could do anything it wanted at all, including fixing this, yet the voice in her head kept whispering _‘what if it’s true’_ and she could _not_ stop herself from wondering.  And not just about... _that_... but all of it.  All of _him._ What if the man underneath the armor was nothing at all like the man of her imagination?  Was this little hope another unrealistic fantasy of a misguided child, just like all of her _other_ hopes?  Part of her thought not, but the other part was... not so sure. 

She had to find out the truth; she _had_ to.

* * *

 

“You wanted to see me?” he asked, standing in the door of her solar and addressing her in the same informal manner she was beginning to ~~enjoy~~ tolerate.

She was working on a letter, bent over the table and busily scribbling at papers since she really did not have the time to be wasting on silly concerns. And working when he arrived would give him the impression that this was a _practical_ conversation about _practical_ matters and _not_ a plot to discover... the unknown.  

Also, the lighting in there was perfect.

“Yes, please come in,” she smiled and set her quill down. “Tell me- how are you liking it here?”

“You’ve asked me this before.”

“Have I? I don’t recall.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, head tilting to the side like an adorable, overgrown puppy.

“I like it,” he grumbled. “Just cold, is all.”

“Hmm, I see,” she nodded, brows wrinkled as if the answer was entirely new to her even though he had told her this plenty of times. “If only there was some way to make you feel.... oh, I know!  Warmer clothes!”

“Clothes?” he echoed, head tilting the other way. _So adorable._

“Just what you need! Now, we should go ahead and take your measure since we’re thinking about it.  Don’t want to forget!” 

It was the perfect ruse- he would have to remove most of his clothing for this, she knew, since she always had to remove most of her clothing when she got measured. And after she had ascertained what she needed to she could send him on his way, none the wiser. 

She moved quickly to a nearby table to locate her measuring string, subtly closing the door while keeping her back to him so that he would know she was not particularly interested in seeing his body. The shame would kill her if he ever knew she was only doing this to get a good look at his... measurements... but when she turned back around he was still fully clothed.    

“Is this how you normally have your measure taken?” she hinted broadly; he raised a brow.

“Yes.”

Sansa’s shoulders slumped. “Oh.” 

It made sense, of course, now that she thought about it. The bodice of a gown had to be snug and exactly the right length for a woman’s torso, while a tunic was worn loose and was therefore much more forgiving when it came to measurements. 

Realizing all this now had her frowning in disappointment, tapping her fingers together and thinking what to do next. She would just have to make the best of it. 

“Ah... I can do that,” he complained when she slid the knotted string around his (impossibly wide) waist, because if she was going to do this at all then she may as well start with the breeches. Gods be good, she could hardly reach, had to bring her face inappropriately close to his stomach which was... nice.  Warm.

“When was the last time you had clothes made?” she asked, hoping her chatter would distract him from the string now nestled around his (very trim) hips.

“Can’t remember,” he muttered, his near-breathless tone sending prickles down her back.

He tensed when she knelt before him, her hand brushing against his (absurdly muscular) thigh, and even though she could tell he was uncomfortable he held himself still.

“Little bird...”

“Almost done,” she sang, sliding the string from hip to ankle. Heavens, he was so tall.

“Sansa...”

“Just have to get the inseam.”

It was the last measurement, the trickiest and the most interesting, but before she could get the string in place an iron hand clamped over her wrist and pulled her roughly to her feet.

“There is _nothing wrong_ with my clothes!” he growled, making her flinch, then stalked from the room without a glance backwards. 

Sansa crossed her arms and sighed, defeated. He was angry with her; she hated when he was angry with her.  She couldn’t even say it had been worth it to draw his ire, either, since she still hadn’t been able to ascertain his… um, his... well, his _anything._

* * *

 

“You want me to _what?”_

“Oh, no, no, no, it’s not _me,”_ she laughed, one hand fluttering up to her heart to prove how ridiculous she found his assumption.  “It’s Beth.  She needs a model for a Warrior project she’s working on.”

_A project I gave to her._

“And she sent for _me?”_

“Of course.”

It was true in only the very strictest of senses. Sansa had suggested using him as a model, so Beth reluctantly asked her to fetch him; therefore, Beth sent for him.  Not a lie.

Winterfell’s artist was terrified of the Hound and hadn’t even bothered to hide her displeasure when Sansa first mentioned using him for her sculpture. When she added that perhaps the Warrior figure should be unclothed- to show off his impressive, Godly muscles, of course- Beth had winced.  Much like the Hound was doing now.  

“You and your buggering Gods,” he muttered, eyes rolling up before coming back down on her. “Lead the way.” 

She walked swiftly down the winding corridors to Beth’s tiny workroom, reminding herself that this was a practical request and there was no reason why she should be so giggly. Several times she had to steady the skip in her step but... it just had gone so well, entirely too easy, and when they finally arrived at the artist’s crowded room Sansa felt as if she would burst from the anticipation.   

“I have a sketch I started,” Beth said with no introduction, and offered up a sheaf of parchment. “If you could just... pose like this.”

They looked together at the sketch the woman was holding, which Sansa was pleased to see reflected a man in the traditional Warrior pose, vaguely naked. For a moment she worried he would protest but to her amazement- and delight- he didn’t even hesitate, reached for his sword belt and unfastened it on instinct, then his gaze fell on her and he paused.

“Are you staying?”

“Oh yes, I help Beth whenever she asks.”

 _She just never does, so it’s not a lie._ She said a silent prayer that Beth would not contradict her, but what Beth _did_ say was even worse.

“It’s not necessary to disrobe.”

“It’s not?” Sandor asked.

“It’s not?” Sansa echoed.

“No, I just need you to pose.”

So he did- drew himself up even bigger than usual and struck the appropriate pose. Gods be good but there wasn’t anyone who could have been a better model for the Warrior than him-the way his jaw set like he was going into battle, thick neck framed by heavily-muscled shoulders, a broad chest and tapered waist that flared out into wide and sturdy thighs, and there, right at the hem of his tunic, if she tried very, very hard she could almost make out... 

“Lady Sansa,” Beth called, interrupting her thoughts when she thrust a sack of rags into her hands. “Would you be so kind as to take these to the washers?  Your help is appreciated, as always.”

She was fairly certain there was a challenge in those words but she was far too focused on hiding her disappointment to address it, just nodded meekly and left without a word. What a disaster.  And not just because she wouldn’t get to see what she was hoping to see but because she really had too much work to be wasting time running errands for Beth.

* * *

 

“You’re learning to be a maester, now?”

“Yes, that’s right,” she answered coolly from her place at the table, both impressed and ashamed by her own tenacity.   “We can’t rely on Sam forever.  What if something happens to him?”

It was the exact same explanation she’d given to Sam earlier in the day. When he’d suggested they get Jon’s approval she had promised she would; and she _would_... eventually. 

The young maester had been predictably flustered that she made her request on the same day he had to perform a number of physical examinations, had insisted women were forbidden to learn the skills of a maester but if she _really wanted_ he’d be happy to teach her economics.  She had essentially ignored his protest.  Once he knew he wasn’t going to persuade her to leave he told her she would spend the day observing and nothing more, and she had nodded thoughtfully as if he had won the argument though the truth was that she only _wanted_ to observe.

And so she’d infiltrated this last bastion of masculine learning, looking to all like she belonged there with book before her and quill in hand; the Hound, though, was still not convinced and raised a skeptical brow. It wasn’t until Sam told him that she would, in fact, be learning some maester skills that he finally relaxed and accepted it.

“What do you need me to do?” he asked. “Disrobe?”

“Oh no, that’s not necessary,” Sam answered, a nervous stutter coloring his words.

Sansa grimaced; did _no one_ in Winterfell ever take their clothes off?

The examination, as it turned out, involved a quick inspection of his ears and mouth and then mostly just asking questions. And not even any interesting questions, just vague inquiries into diet and activity and whether or not he ever felt pain or discomfort of any kind.  In the end she was happy when Sam proclaimed him entirely healthy; she just would have been _happier_ if he was bare-chested. 

_If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself._

“This says you have an injury on your leg that often plagues you,” she announced, pretending she was learning the information off a page in Sam’s book though she was the one who had written it there. “How does it feel now?”

He shrugged. “Not bothering me.”

“Might want to examine it,” she suggested to Sam; the maester looked genuinely surprised.

“Why? He says it’s not bothering him.”

“And why do you care so much?” Sandor added, but she’d already prepared for that question and rolled effortlessly into the answer.

“I care about the general well-being of the men who devote their lives to the North and I wish for their continued good health,” she told him, mildly indignant just to make her point. “If your injury _bothers_ you...”

“I already said it doesn’t.”

“And I’m pleased to hear it. All the same, I think it’s best if...”

“Are we done here?” he interrupted, addressing his question to Sam as if she hadn’t been saying anything at all. “I need to get down to the yard.”

“Oh yes. Quite done.”   

It was extremely discourteous, the way he left without saying a word of farewell, and she found herself more annoyed than disappointed by his departure. When she finally wrested her eyes from the door the young maester was smiling kindly in her direction. 

“I have more exams to perform, if you like. Or we could meet later, talk about herbs?”

“No, I think I’ve learned enough,” she responded, scurrying out the door after a brief word of thanks; she was just far too busy to be wasting time pretending to be a maester.

* * *

 

They sat side-by-side in the near-empty hall, the evening meal mostly over except for Sandor, who seemed never to get his fill, and Sansa, who had hardly touched her food. Her fork made another ineffective scrape across her plate but her gaze stayed focused... elsewhere; the same ‘elsewhere’ her imagination had been lingering of late.

It was just... nothing had worked so far, all her attempts pitiful failures. And it was right _there-_ just below the meat and carrots and cake, the plate, the linen, the table, the wool of his breeches, his smallclothes- so close yet so far away. 

“Little bird,” he rasped suddenly, a soft rumble that reached all the way into her belly, and when he turned to look at her those dark eyes stopped her heart.

“Yes?”

“If there’s something you want... all you have to do is ask.”

She gaped at him. Could it really be so simple?  Yes, probably- he would give her whatever she asked, without question, even if she asked him to disrobe _._ It would certainly solve her little dilemma, but... she could never justify such a thing without admitting she thought about him, about... _it_... and then what?  Would he take it as some sort of invitation?  Would he think her wanton?

The Hound let out a frustrated sigh, rolled his eyes to the heavens, lifted his plate till it was in front of her... and slid the last lemon cake from his plate onto her own. Sansa blinked stupidly at the confection.

“Is that not what you wanted?” he asked, confused. “You’ve been staring at it almost the entire meal!”

“Yes, thank you,” she gasped, then spooned as much cake into her mouth as she could for a woman who was no longer breathing. The Seven save her- she may have to kill that man if he didn’t kill her first.

* * *

 

Sansa sunk into the enormous wooden tub in her chambers after sending her maid away; _their_ tub, she decided, since they were the only two to use it.  She’d been so pleased and excited when she’d first procured it, anxious to set her new plan in motion, but ultimately that had done her as much good as all of her _other_ plans. 

“I feel so selfish,” she’d told him one morning as if the matter really did weigh heavily on her conscience. “The bathhouse under repair, nowhere for the people to bathe, and here I am with the largest tub in Winterfell all to myself.  It would be ever so kind of me to share, don’t you think?”

“If it would make you feel better...” the Hound had said, obviously confused at what her statement had to do with him.

“It would. So just let my maids know when you’d like to bathe and they’ll have someone bring the water.”

Something in his expression had turned her stomach to lead but she couldn’t show it, instead showed him the kindest, most patient smile she could muster. And after a moment of scrutiny he had nodded slowly, almost reluctantly.

“I’ll just… make sure you know when I’m using it.”

“That’s not necessary, I’ll be far too busy to bother you.”

To emphasize that point she had turned and walked away from him, on to the next important task. She really _was_ too busy to bother him but kept an eye towards her room anyway, watched for signs that he had accepted her offer, always in the middle of the day.  And after a time she would burst into her chambers with an exaggerated-

“Oh, I am _so sorry,_ how careless of me to...”

-only to find him freshly-bathed and fully-clothed and only mildly surprised to see her there. Thrice now she had tried, and thrice now she had failed.  And even though she was absolutely certain that if she just kept trying she would eventually succeed, she was also certain he would eventually get suspicious and _that_ would never do.  

“Brrrrr....”

The bath was cooling rapidly but she couldn’t quite bring herself to leave the tepid water. They used this tub _together_ , just not at the same time, and that thought alone had her imagination boiling again.  Would he lie back like this and think of her, like she would think of him?  Would his fingers get wrinkly and skin turn to gooseflesh like hers would?  Would his manhood float up out of the water like her breasts were doing now? 

The air in her chambers was warmer than the water, forcing her from the bath if only to escape the cold. She stood and wrung her hair out, stretched her arms up over her head so she could drip dry and watched as her flickering shadow did the same, but just as she turned to reach for her towel the door flew open.

“Little bird, I…”

 _“Get out!”_ she shrieked. 

He did, thank the heavens, retreated immediately leaving only a slamming door in his wake. Oh gods, oh _gods,_ he’d seen her.  He’d seen _all_ of her. 

* * *

 

The knock at her door was brisk and light and far too late in the evening, so late that she was already dressed for bed, hair brushed and braided, a book waiting to be read... who could be calling on her at this hour?

Somehow, she already knew.

It wasn’t the smartest decision- to open the door without putting on a robe, without asking who was there- but that was still what she did. Coming face-to-stern-face with him was easier than she thought it would be though his expression told her nothing of why he was there.  The only thing she was certain of was that if it was bad he would have told her already.

“May I come in?”

That would be untoward. Inappropriate.  Wrong.  She knew better, she really did.  In the end she only pressed her lips together and let the door fall open, allowing him entry. 

“Did you need something?” she asked, walking to the center of her room after he closed the door because she didn’t know where else to go. He joined her there, far from the bed and farther from the fire, waiting in silence for what felt like ages before finally answering.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy,” she answered truthfully. Firmly.

“Are you angry with me?”

Sansa cleared her throat. “No.”

“Is it because of the bath?”

 _Yes._ “No?”

More silence, maybe because she’d lied. Probably because she’d lied.  Why was she lying anyway, wouldn’t avoiding him be an entirely understandable reaction to what happened?  It wasn’t as if she were doing anything wrong, so why was she so embarrassed to admit it?  

“I think I know how to fix it.”

“You do?”

A slow nod, eyes still on her, watching her while he reached for his own laces and began to undo them, and Sansa’s breath came to a shuddering stop.

First it was the tunic, exposing an expanse of hair and skin she was only willing to look at in her periphery. When he bent to take off his boots she knew what it meant, and he confirmed her suspicion by unbuckling his belt and unlacing his breeches.

It was just like in her dreams; for a moment she wondered if it _was_ a dream, everything slow and warm and brushed in firelight.  Except in her dreams she didn’t feel like this, like she was dizzy from wine, heart galloping so achingly fast she couldn’t breathe properly. 

He was completely bare now, standing as tall and proud as he had for Beth but she could not force herself to look. Her body was tense and trembling, eyes locked on his and no doubt showing her panic, and for the first time she thought that maybe she _didn’t_ want this, didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know. 

Maybe _he_ didn’t want it either because his hard expression broke, softening into something she’d never seen on him before:  doubt.

“I thought you wanted to.”

 _That_ sobered her.

“You thought I wanted to _what?”_ she demanded, horrified, because if he thought she wanted what she thought he thought she wanted...

“To look.”

Sansa took a slow breath and held it, eyes widening and mouth falling open. Oh gods... he _knew._ For how long she couldn’t guess, perhaps he’d known the entire time and all her clever little plans hadn’t been quite as clever as she thought.  Maybe he’d been playing with her, teasing her, trying to break her down. Or maybe he’d been laughing about it.  About her.  Her lungs were screaming.  She had to breathe, had to say something, had to be _indignant_ at his presumption, but when she opened her mouth she only said-

“How...?”

He seemed relieved by her question, huffed a laugh but didn’t answer it, only took her hand in his and pulled her closer.

“Look, if you like,” he told her, and placed her hand on his chest. “Or don’t.  Matters little to me.”

It may have mattered little to him but it _scared_ her; _he_ scared her- standing in front of her, as exposed as possible and inviting her to look... it frightened her in a way she’d never anticipated.  But his heart was beating there under her hand, wild and heavy and _hers;_ she knew it now if she never knew if before, and something about that made her feel... safe. 

So she looked, first at her own hand, slender fingers lost in the truly absurd amounts of dark curly hair where he held them firmly, _gently_ against his chest.  Then carefully, cautiously, her eyes began to wander.  

It was the scars that drew her attention first, so many scars running like webs over his arms and shoulders, silvery threads and puckered skin and twisted knots of what hadn’t healed correctly. One shoulder was marred with more burns scars, still red and appearing raw though she knew they were as healed as they were like to get. 

Aside from the scars was the luster of his skin, almost satiny, remarkably smooth and stretched so tightly over muscle it looked like it might split. Hair covered his chest entirely, so dense she could scarcely make out what was beneath and tapering off around the jut of bone at the base of his neck, bones like hers but far less delicate. His pulse beat steadily along the taut tendons in his neck, she could see it clearly, along with the exaggerated bump that all men had and little dots of blood that meant he’d recently shaved.  He’d shaved for her- for _this-_ and that realization warmed her more than anything else had so far.

The muscles on his shoulders and arms defied belief, round and massive and seemingly cut from stone; even the scars made him look more marble than flesh. She followed the long ridges of veins down the length of his arm then skipped over to his stomach, lean and tone from a lifetime of training and decorated with even more scars.  A warrior’s body, through and through, every scar a sign of an injury he’d survived, a battle he’d bled for.  

He was perfect- not flawless, but perfect- and part of her didn’t need to see any more, didn’t need to know any more. It was enough.  The other part of her- the part that kept her up at night- demanded just a little more information.  He’d already told her she _could_.  So she probably _should_.  He might take offense if she didn’t accept his invitation, and the gods knew she didn’t want to _insult_ him.  She took a deep breath to gather her courage and forced her gaze downward.

It was all for nothing when her door banged open, and instead of jumping _away_ from the naked man in her room she leapt _into_ him, hiding herself from the grey eyes glaring at them both from the corridor.

“Hello, Jon,” was all she could manage to say.

* * *

 

“With this kiss I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.”

How funny it was that their first kiss was at their wedding- a wedding that was only performed because Jon misunderstood what he saw. She supposed she could have just told him everything, but how _could_ she when the lie seemed so true and the truth seemed like a lie?  How did she explain to her older brother that she just wanted to _look_ , thank you, and that was all?

And so she’d said nothing, and neither had the Hound. And that was how they found themselves in the sept in the dark of night, with vows repeated in earnest and Jon scowling at the both of them, hand patting the pommel of his sword and eyes threatening to kill. 

“I’m going to bed,” Jon snapped after dismissing the sleepy septon, then gave them one last hard look. “I’ll see you two in the morning.”

On that note he turned and left her alone with her new husband, who was looking down at her with an almost annoyed expression even though he had just gotten married and this was therefore the happiest day of his life.

“Can I have my cloak back? I’m cold.”

“No, it’s mine now,” she retorted, pulling the garment tighter around herself. “If you had let me make you warmer clothes then you wouldn’t be in this predicament, would you?”

“I suppose that’s true,” he rasped dispassionately, still trying to look annoyed though his eyes held the truth- his mind was revisiting all her little schemes and how they had got them to this point. And judging by the way his gaze wandered over her, she would guess he was also thinking about what came next, what happened now between a wife and her husband.

Her husband. It could be worse.  It _had_ been worse.  Truth was, she doubted it could be any _better_ than him, couldn’t think of anyone she would rather marry.  Maybe someday she would actually say that, too, but not today; not with him smirking at her like that. 

“I’d like to pray before we retire,” she said and watched that little sliver of cockiness slide right off of him.  A hand went possessively to her back and lead her away and together they made the rounds of the sept, lighting a candle and praying to each of the gods in turn. 

She said a prayer for Jon and Arya and Bran and Rickon, for all the people who lived in Winterfell and considered it their home.

She said a prayer for the Night’s Watch on the Wall, the Wildlings in the Gift, and all the men, women, and children who pledged their lives to the North.

She said a prayer for her new husband, for the union they would be consummating very, very soon and the life they would build together.

And she said a prayer for Tyrion, wherever he was. It _was_ his fault after all; she knew that. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1- Inspiration for the bath scene from Neil Simon's 'Brighton Beach Memoirs.'
> 
> 2- Thanks DavidBrighton for the title!


End file.
